


Never done with killing time (I'd like it if you stayed)

by Trojie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Porn, Dealfic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn With Plot, Protective Sam Winchester, Season/Series 03, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-29
Updated: 2013-11-29
Packaged: 2018-01-02 23:58:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's life has a rhythm and it's counting down. His bucket list is pretty much done and it hasn't helped. Seventeen days to go, and Sam slides into his bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never done with killing time (I'd like it if you stayed)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my 2013 hurt-comfort bingo card, prompt "deadline/timebomb". Angsty schmoopy hurty PWP set in Dean's deal year. [Title from '400 Lux' by Lorde.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HkeKOrWQpZo)

It's five am, seventeen days before Dean's deal comes due, when Sam slides into bed behind him and hangs on like grim death. It's like he thinks he can be an anchor, like if he just holds on tight enough Dean will be able to stay. 

Dean hasn't slept in forty eight hours, and his brother is wrapped around him like twenty years haven't passed - like they're eight and four and sharing a bed for the sake of space, and Sam's convinced a monster's going to get them in the night. Dean hasn't slept in forty eight hours, and his brother is pressed up against him like six years haven't passed - like they're twenty two and eighteen and sharing a bed for the sake of hormones, and Sam's convinced their father's gonna catch them in the morning.

Dean hasn't slept in forty eight hours. He rolls over and he knows Sam isn't asleep because he's breathing wrong. His heart is beating too fast - one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand - higher than usual. Dean knows. Dean always knows.

The clock on the nightstand is digital so it doesn't tick, but it doesn't need to. 

Dean has good time-sense, see. Trained into it as a kid - Dad hated tardiness, and as well as that, motel hot water runs out fast, canned food burns if you leave it on the stove too long, school lets out the same time every day. Sam was at Stanford for seven hundred and thirteen days before Dean dragged him back into this fucking mess. Rituals need to be done by midnight sometimes - or spells only last twenty four hours. Werewolves only change when the moon is full. Best nights for a summoning are solstices and equinoxes. Dean's world has its own rhythm - _one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand_ \- and he knows it deep in his bones.

Dean knows, intimately, desperately, in ways he can't prevent, exactly how long he has left on his deal. From the moment he kissed the demon, he knew. He can feel the seconds tick away in the back of his head. 

Sam has let Dean have "space" for every stupid thing he said was on his bucket-list, but he never actually _went_ anywhere - he waited in the car, he was the shadow through the curtains and Dean's going to Hell literally but Dean's also going to Hell metaphorically because dammit but knowing Sam was there was what let him enjoy it. All of it. Burgers for breakfast, hooking up with twins, biggest ball of twine, everything Dean wanted to do he did because he had one year to do it in, and he wanted to spend it with Sam in his sightlines but he couldn't say it. And Sam stayed anyway. Sam knew.

Dean can tally up all the moments he's wasted. One number stacks up, the other runs lower and lower. He has seventeen days left on the clock, out of three hundred sixty five, and Sam is in his bed for the first time in however many days are in six years, for the first time since before Stanford.

But just because Dean hasn't moved on doesn't mean Sam hasn't. It's not like it was before. _They're_ not like they were before. They don't do this any more. Not in six years. Their lives are supposed to be separate now, like things usually are when you've cut them down the middle, and it's seventeen days until Dean bites the big one and Sam's in his bed again. 

Dean remembers how Sam respected Dad's wishes when Dad was dead and he just wants to freaking cry. 

Sam waits. Dean's hands are trapped between them and Sam watches him carefully. Dean hasn't slept in forty eight hours and his brother's thigh is grinding very very slightly up all soft and gentle against Dean's morning wood. 

It hurts Dean's heart. 

'Don't,' Dean murmurs. 'You don't wanna - don't, Sam.'

'I do,' Sam counters. He presses his forehead up against Dean's. 'Wanted to do this for … God, Dean, seems like everyone but me's been touching you and it doesn't help, does it? Do they make you forget what's happening? Cos I don't think they're doing it for you, I see you after and you're still faking. And I've tried. I really … fuck, I really tried, but I just can't any more.' He's almost growling. 'Can't let you go without …' His hands wobble where he's touching Dean, like Dean's gonna break. 'Dean, please.'

Dean's starting to tremble too. Must be the lack of sleep. Sam's heart is thudding faster, oneonethousandtwoonethousandthreeonethousand. Dean can't stop thinking about how Sam's body felt when there wasn't a heartbeat in it. 

He's tried so hard not to want this any more. 

'I know you're scared,' Sam says, soft and shaky. 'You're not alone, Dean. And if you don't want me to touch you I won't. But I'm not going anywhere. Please, just let me.'

'Yeah, Sammy,' Dean says at last, and his voice sounds like it's been road-hauled. Sam pushes closer, and there's no space between them any more. Sam's hard against Dean's hip, Sam's thigh between Dean's, Sam's hair in Dean's hands, Sam's breath in Dean's lungs, Sam's heart in Dean's chest and since when was there space between them anyway? 

They're still wearing clothes, Sam's sleep-shirt and sweats, Dean's briefs, but it doesn't matter cos Dean knows the way Sam's body moves from ten feet away in the middle of a bar fight or from across the road, watching him in a cafe window in line for coffee - they don't need to be naked for Dean to read Sam, know Sam, feel Sam, however far away he is, whatever's between them. 

It's like he'd forgotten that and he's only just now remembering it. Seventeen days left and for the first time Dean doesn't feel like there's a _hole_ in him. 

Sam slides his hand between them, pulls his thigh back and pushes closer until he's cupping Dean's dick in his hand. Hips against hips, making a cradle of fingers and bones and Dean's eyes are rolling back in his head already. He wants to be gone. He wants Sam to take him away. He wants that drumming in his ears to just be the rush of blood and not the tick of time draining away from him. 

'Shhh,' Sam coaxes him. Maybe Dean was making noises - he's not sure, too dizzy on touch and trying to lose himself. 'It's okay, Dean, it's okay -'

Sam's hand on Dean's cock is an electric shock of _ohfuckyes_ and Dean wants to crawl inside Sam's skin and live there and be touched like this all the time. Sam's got his hand cramped up inside the wet tight space of Dean's underwear, barely able to move, just pushing and touching, giving Dean something to rub himself off on. Dean pulls at him, hair between his fingers, and Sam rolls half on top of him, straddling Dean's knees so he can keep his hand in play and stretching long over Dean's body. He kisses Dean's mouth so hungrily Dean can't breathe. 

Dean's heart is hammering. Or maybe that's Sam's. He can't tell any more, can't count any more. Sam makes a noise Dean's never heard before and practically rips Dean's underwear off, kicks off his sweats and his shirt goes somewhere Dean doesn't see, and then they're naked together in the heat and the dark. 

'Sammy,' Dean gasps when Sam leans down and blankets him. 'Oh fuck, Sammy -'

'Never gonna let go of you,' Sam grits out, grinding them together, elbows braced either side of Dean's face. Dean arches and clamps his knees around Sam's thighs, arms around Sam's shoulders. 'Hear me? Gonna fix this, Dean, I swear to God -'

Sam gets a hand between them again and this time he wraps them both up in his fist, strokes and Dean's legs fall back open, to let Sam get at everything he wants. 

It feels so good, being in the dark and shaking to bits in Sam's safe hands and not having to lie about the things he needs. 'Just touch me,' Dean moans. 'Shut the fuck up and touch me,' and he kisses Sam hard before he can say another word. Sam's hand turns slick with the way Dean's dripping desperation in his palm, and it's all sick, sloppy sounds of jacking off and making out and bodies too close together for anything but honesty. 

Honesty's _obscene_. The only time Dean ever feels like he's not lying to anyone is when he's doing this. He curves up under Sam and pulls his head down for another kiss, bites, pulls at Sam's lower lip all plush and hot from overuse, slides his other hand into the mess between them to touch Sam's cock. 'Come for me,' Dean says. 'Sam. Sammy. Need you to. Need it. Want you to come for me, give it to me Sammy, c'mon, come all over me -' it's a chant, pounds in Dean's chest, and Sam gasps and flings his head up and comes, and Dean's a sure thing where his brother's involved because Sam's body wracked with orgasm breaks him open. He seizes, catches fire, his dick jerks and his toes clench in the sheets and none of Dean's bucket-list fucks or fantasies fulfilled this year can even come close to this. 

For a long moment, with Sam sloppy-kissing his throat in the afterglow, Dean forgets he was counting.

'I'm not gonna let you go,' Sam whispers into Dean's skin, face wet against the jumping pulse in Dean's neck. 'I don't care, I'm gonna save you, I promise. You're not going to Hell, Dean. You're not.' He keeps saying it, over and over until he falls asleep. 

He won't find a way. Dean's going to Hell and he knows it, and he's not gonna let Sam fuck it all up and get himself killed again, in any case. So in seventeen days it won't matter what Sam says. Dean's counting down again, one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand, with Sam's heart steady under his hands. That was the point all along. That's the comfort Dean needed. 

'Not going to Hell,' Sam mumbles. Dean scruffs his fingertips slowly through Sam's hair, glancing across his temple where the blood moves. 

In seventeen days it _won't_ matter what Sam says. But Sam saying it, believing it, and the reality of Sam's pulse jumping under Dean's touch? That helps.


End file.
